


Bah Humbug!

by judes



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judes/pseuds/judes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even 5000 year old immortals can have a really bad day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bah Humbug!

An icy breeze swirled, nipping at ears and noses and any exposed flesh. Giant flakes of snow settled softly, heralding the storm predicted for overnight. The sky was gunmetal grey as the clouds started to lose the heavy load of snow that would blanket the city in a few short hours.

Adam Pierson hurried across the nearly empty car park of the Faculty of History at the University of Seacouver, cursing the Dean for calling a last minute meeting, cursing the weather as the wind chapped his hands and nose, cursing Duncan for being out of town on this the eve of their first Christmas together. The wind flapped through his overcoat, trying to steal what bit of warmth he still retained. He needed to get back to the Loft to finish his preparations. He had a statement to make.

Adam hurried but as he pulled his coat collar tightly around his neck, trying in vain to prevent the icy snowflakes dripping down his back, the blow between his shoulder blades came, seemingly out of nowhere. He flew forward, sprawling ungainly on the tarmac surface of the car park, landing on nose, chin, knees and palms, scraping skin. Even given the unexpected nature of the attack, however, 5000 years of experience had honed his responses and he quickly flipped to his feet and whirled round.

His attacker was also unexpected. Tall, thin, scruffy, mortal, dressed in a variety of misshapen and ill fitting sweaters, coats, scarves and pointing a very large and very deadly handgun straight at Adam.

He gestured abruptly with his free hand, “Give me your wallet, watch and laptop now, “ he growled.

Adam hesitated. It went against the grain to give in to the violence but he needed to get back to the Loft and he could certainly afford to lose these items.

“Easy, easy. Give me a second …..” he started to undo his watchstrap, as the attacker seemed ready to lunge forward. Aggression vibrated from him in almost palpable waves. Whatever he was on was making him jittery, his pupils were dilated, and sweat dripped down his forehead.

“Come on, man, give it to me ….” He reached out and grabbed the watch Adam was holding out to him.

“Kick the laptop over to me,” he snarled and Adam complied, keeping a wary eye on the gun hand, which despite the jitters still running through the attacker, hadn’t wavered much from the unerring aim at his chest.

“Wallet ….. now give me your wallet ……”

As Adam reached inside his coat, a car engine started up across the car park, the roar of a 4x4 causing the attacker to glance in its direction. Adam hesitated, not sure what was going to happen next. His attacker turned back to him, misinterpreted the hesitation and fired repeatedly.

“Oh, shit!” Adam had no time to duck or move in any way before a heavy calibre slug tore into his chest. The pain was excruciating. Blood filled his lungs. His body flew backwards and he landed with an ungainly thump against a car bumper. His head met a headlamp with a resounding crunch, his vision blurred and he died.

**********

Woomff!! Air entered his lungs in a rush as he surged back to life. He was still lying in the University car park, the gunshot having apparently not attracted any attention. Not that he wanted any attention. A careful cataloguing of body parts reassured him that apart from a large bloody hole through his layers of clothing, everything else was as it should be.

He levered himself up from the ground and took a quick look round. The car park was as deserted as before, the snow was still falling and he reckoned he’d been down for about half an hour. Falling between parked cars had ensured that he was undiscovered and his attacker had obviously panicked and left. He glanced at his wrist to check the time and cursed as he remembered handing it over to the mugger. However, his wallet and car keys were still in his pocket and he collected his laptop, briefcase and various textbooks scattered across several yards of tarmac as he made his way across the increasingly treacherous snow covered ground.

His 4x4 was parked about fifty yards away and he blipped the automatic unlock as he approached. Opening the front passenger door, he threw his belongings onto the seat and moved round to the driver’s side.

“Bugger!” The front driver’s side tyre was flat.

Cursing the ill luck Fate seemed to have gifted him with, he opened the rear of the car, pulled up the carpet, released the spare wheel and dug around for the tools he’d need. Checking the car clock he knew time was running short if he was to make it on time but he also knew that rushing the job wasn’t possible given the weather conditions.

Getting the car jacked up proved easier than expected; getting the wheel off was a whole other story. The wheel brace slipped off the nuts every time he tried to get enough traction to loosen them. Twice it ripped across his knuckles causing him to drop the damn tool. Eventually, however, he managed to loosen the nuts sufficiently so he could remove the tyre. A cursory inspection showed a small neat hole – probably caused by one of the bullets that hadn’t hit him. Glancing back to the scene of the attack, he figured the trajectory was just about right and, given the way his luck was currently running, he didn’t think he was too far off the mark.

Getting the spare tyre in place, then tightening the nuts gave the wheel brace another opportunity to strip skin but after several fraught minutes the job was done. He released the jack and put the tools and damaged tyre in the boot. Stomping his feet to try to put some feeling back in them, now thoroughly soaked and miserable, he finally pulled himself into the driver’s seat and inserted the ignition key.

Half expecting the engine to refuse, he released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, as it turned over first time. Letting the engine idle, he turned the heating up full and checked the time. 5.35pm. Just enough time to get to the Mall.

*********

It seemed his luck had changed for the better. Traffic was relatively light and he found a parking space only two rows from the entrance he needed. As he got out of the car, he pulled his sword from behind the driver’s seat and tucked it securely into the sheath sewn into his overcoat. With a final check that his wallet was where it should be, he clicked the car locked and set off with a ground-eating stride into the Mall.

Given the lateness of the hour, most of the Christmas Eve shoppers were heading out but he still had to swerve to avoid the more oblivious of the species. At last, he reached his destination.

The metal shutters had already been secured but the sign on the door still read “Open”. As he reached out with his left hand to push open the shop door, it swung open from the inside and a harassed-looking individual, wearing a prominent badge declaring him to be the “Manager” waved him away.

“We’re closed …..” as he tried to turn the sign round whilst closing the door.

“Not yet you’re not;” Adam was equally emphatic. He twisted slightly and suddenly he was passed the manager and in the semi-darkened interior. “I placed an order several weeks ago and I just need to collect and pay for it. I have the collection receipt right here.” As he started to pull out his wallet, the manager recovered a modicum of his equilibrium and turned towards his last customer before the Christmas break, realising that it would be more trouble and effort to evict the customer than to serve him.

“Alright, sir, let me have the receipt and I’ll find the item for you.”

**********

Fifteen minutes later, Adam left the shop, the manager closing the door rapidly behind him, locking up before anyone else could push their way in.

Before he’d taken two steps towards the Mall exit, the buzz of another immortal hit him.

“Oh, shit!”

Glancing surreptitiously around, he tried to spot this potential source of danger. Although there were now even fewer people around, no immediate threat presented itself. Deciding that discretion was very definitely the better part of valour on this occasion, Adam continued to move rapidly towards the car park. The buzz faded.

As he came to the exit doors, the buzz hit again, stronger than before. There was no point going back. If he could get to the car, he could get away.

The automatic doors swished open as he approached and he was almost outside when a voice called out from the shadows.

“Planning on missing our rendezvous?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you’re a coward!”

“Absolutely.”

Adam had been moving slowly towards his car as he weighed up the shadow now moving towards him. The Challenger was tall – weren’t they always – blond, Nordic features, leather trousers, knee length boots and leather jacket – typical biker gear but there was nothing typical about the axe he carried in his left hand.

Even to an untrained eye, the axe was impressive; it gleamed in what little light was available. The lethal looking head was at least 18 inches across and it was obviously well cared for. The wielder swung it in an arc as he advanced.

“Look, we don’t have to do this. I don’t know you …..” Adam back away slowly, his hands held away from his body, offering no threat.

“It’s what we do. It’s what I do. And you will fight me …..” The Challenger quickened his pace, threatening to attack in full view of the few remaining last minute Christmas shoppers.

Glancing around, Adam assessed the surrounding area for both escape routes and relative privacy. He was still too far away from his car and wherever else he went on foot, the Challenger was sure to follow. Shrugging inwardly, he accepted that Fate had decreed this was going to a bad, bad day.

“If you insist … but, perhaps we should give ourselves a little privacy. I believe there is a small park nearby.” He indicated a line of trees off to his right.

The Challenger nodded his acceptance and together they moved towards the park, leaving more than a sword’s length between them and each watching the other for any suspicious moves.

**********

It wasn’t much of a park, but it was badly lit and private. There was always a danger that a Challenge would be witnessed but at least this venue minimised that eventuality somewhat. The park was Victorian in design, with lawns laid down formally, bordered by large beds, currently filled with evergreen, perennial bushes. The surrounding trees effectively cut the park off from the nearby Mall. There was a small children’s play area, which had a forlorn, abandoned look as whatever children used it were certainly absent on this freezing, sleeting Christmas Eve. 

As he took stock of the surroundings, Adam tried once again to dissuade the Challenger from pursuing the fight.

“Don’t you have better things to do on Christmas Eve?”

“This is what we do. So let’s get on with it.”

“So be it,” and with a quick twist, Adam’s sword appeared in his left hand.

Adam brought his sword up in front of him, between himself and the Challenger.

“I am Erlendr,” said the Challenger. “It means “Army of One.”

Adam sighed. He didn’t recognise the name but at least he was right about the Nordic origin. “Fine,” he said simply.

Looking puzzled, Erlendr spoke again, “You’re supposed to introduce yourself.”

Adam sighed again, this was getting annoying. But at least if this Erlendr was a stickler for the etiquette of a challenge, he should also stick to the rules in the actual combat.

“Adam Pierson. At the moment, it means “Having A Really Bad Day.”

Erlendr nodded, “That will do,” and charged.

Adam just had time to jump back, raising his sword to block the terrifying axe’s advance. The shock of the impact ran through his body into the ground. Erlendr swung again, bringing the axe in a huge circular movement around his head, aiming at Adam’s neck. 

“Holy Hell!” thought Adam as he dove under the axe. Rolling over in the snow, he saw Erlendr advancing. Jumping up, he took the offensive, moving his sword in a devastatingly quick flurry of jabs, thrusts and swings. Erlendr parried, blow for blow, smiling as he believed that Adam was wearing himself out. Pausing, Adam shrugged out of his shredded overcoat, dropping it to the icy ground, and back through the play area. 

He twisted through the swing as Erlendr turned his defence into attack, surprising Adam with his speed. The axe came down, aiming to cleave his head in half. Adam brought his sword above his head to block the blow, but it still drove him to the cold ground. The axe slid down the bastard sword and caught on the cross guard.

“You’re good,” growled Erlendr, “But our blades are not our only weapons.” He thrust out his leg and kicked Adam in the chest, sending him sprawling. “There can be only one,” he yelled as he raised the axe again.

Reaching behind him, Adam scooped up a handful of snow, ice, pebbles, soil, and threw it into Erlendr’s eyes, 

Growling as he wiped his face, it nevertheless distracted him from the killing blow and Adam jumped up, soaked and shivering, charging again with his sword outstretched. Erlendr side-stepped and brought his axe around, slicing into Adam’s back. As Adam spun round, he received another kick to the chest, which hurled him backward through a park bench, yelling in pain as splinters dug into his flesh.

Picking himself up from the wreckage, he backed away, looking for his overcoat. It was lying about twenty feet away. If he could get to it, he could get his Beretta and kill this bastard and take his head. Keeping a wary eye on Erlendr, who was swinging the axe from side to side, grinning as he enjoyed Adam’s predicament. Adam reached down to his calf, drawing a long knife from its sheath and threw it towards his attacker. Erlendr blocked it easily with the shaft of his axe but Adam was already running.

Ten feet from his target, Adam yelled as his leg collapsed under him. Erlendr had re-thrown his own knife and it now protruded through his right leg. Erlendr laughed, “You have given me a good fight,” he called, “You are a true warrior.” He hefted the axe and started towards his fallen foe. Blood stained the snow covered grass.

“But, as I said before, there can be only one.” The axe came down.

Adam’s sword was in the way before Erlendr knew what had happened. Kicking out with his unwounded leg, Adam knocked Erlendr off balance long enough to push his sword through his opponent’s stomach. Adam stood up, pulled the knife out of his leg, letting it drop to the floor. Erlendr roared in pain and anger but still charged, raising the axe again and swinging wildly.

Adam ducked, pulling his sword out of Erlendr’s stomach, and then swung with all his might. So did Erlendr, at exactly the same moment.

**********

Frank wasn’t a lucky guy. He knew it. But even he thought that losing his job, his wife and kids, and home, all on the same day was a bit much. Okay, so trying to cut off his secretary’s hair because he thought she had little green men living on her head wasn’t the best idea. Then claiming that aliens were trying to eat his liver was probably not the most sensible thing he had ever done. But getting caught in a localised lightning storm was too much.

The oddest thing, though, was that he could have sworn that he saw someone stumbling away through the mist. By then, he’d found the headless body and had made up his mind. The aliens had found him again. The park was no longer a safe place to sleep.

**********

When Duncan had been called out of town, he’d promised to be back by now, knowing that they needed time together after the traumas of the past six years. He and Methos had only become lovers after the O’Rourke affair, finally consummating a relationship that had sparked and flickered since their very first meeting. This would be their first Christmas together and he wanted to make it special for his lover, especially since Methos had seemed skittish about the whole concept of giving and receiving gifts. But he’d been delayed and it had been unclear whether he would make it back to Seacouver for the Christmas holidays at all.

As he parked behind the dojo still known as DeSalvo’s, Duncan glanced up to the living quarter windows expecting to see the warm glow indicating that Methos was home, but the whole building was dark. Swallowing his initial concern, he pulled his travel bag from the rear seat, closed and locked the car and searched his briefcase for the building’s keys. Letting himself in, he crossed the deserted dojo. The elevator was down, which further indicated that there was no-one home, even though he knew that Methos wasn’t in the building. His distinctive “buzz” was absent. Growing more concerned, Duncan slammed the elevator gates closed and activated the machinery to take him up. Never had the antiquated elevator taken so long to travel between floors. But eventually he was able to open the gates and step out into the Loft.

Turning the lights on, it was immediately obvious that Methos had been there relatively recently. To his amazement, a 12 foot pine tree dominated a large portion of floor between the kitchen island and the sitting area. It had been carefully decorated with silver and gold pieces but the lights still lay in a tangled heap over one armchair. As he moved further into the Loft, he began to notice other oddities. The books that Methos had been reading, which had been left on various surfaces, including the floor, had gone. Glancing round, he noted them back on the shelves his partner had appropriated for his own use. Methos’ laptop wasn’t on the desk and the carry case was gone from its home by the coat-rack.

Duncan removed his coat, hanging it up and removing the katana from the lining sheath. He placed the sword on the desk and continued his perusal. There was a definite puzzle here. There didn’t seem to be any evidence that Methos had left but he checked the dresser anyway and found the ubiquitous backpack still pushed into a back corner. The king-size bed was neatly made. The floor looked as if it had been swept recently; the rugs even looked freshly cleaned. Shelves and ornaments appeared to have been dusted and polished.

Turning back to the rest of the Loft, he moved towards the kitchen. It was spotless. All the utensils and pots had been scrubbed to a brilliant finish and returned to their proper place. Duncan knew that he was a neat freak and that Methos wasn’t. He also knew that Methos quite often created chaos to garner a reaction. The arguments had been spectacular; the making up more so. 

As he realised the effort his love had put into preparing the Loft for the holidays, he knew that the old man was saying how much he cared. He knew that Duncan considered the holidays to be a special time to spend with loved ones and despite his “bah humbug” attitude prior to Duncan leaving on his business trip, he had obviously decided to prepare a special welcome. A welcome that was somewhat defeated by the absence of the perpetrator.

Opening the refrigerator to get a glass of juice, Duncan found it fully stocked. There was a turkey with all the trimmings; freshly prepared vegetables; a delicious looking dessert and several bottles of a really good champagne.

So where was he? Methos had obviously intended to be here for the holidays. 

Crossing the room quickly, Duncan dialled the mobile number he knew better than his own. But the call went straight through to voicemail. “Hey! It’s me. I’m home and hoping you’re headed in this direction. Missed you.” Thinking quickly, he dialled another familiar number. This time there was a human being at the other end.

“Joe’s.”

"Hey, Joe.”

“Mac! How’re you doing?”

“I just got back into town. You haven’t seen Methos today, have you?”

“Not a sign. He popped in yesterday, wished me Seasons Greetings. Said he had things to do. Haven’t you spoken?”

“I rang last night but I didn’t think I’d be able to get home this early so he’s not expecting me. He’s probably popped out for something and will be back soon.”

“Yeah, probably. Let me know if there’s a problem.”

“Sure thing. Speak to you later.”

As Duncan hung up, he glanced at the antique mantle clock, he and Methos had discovered at a yard sale in the autumn. 7.00pm. He couldn’t think where else Methos could be. Although they’d been together for eight months, they’d moved from Paris to Seacouver and their social life revolved around Joe’s, the University faculty get togethers and various charity affairs for which Duncan was a sponsor. They had neither wanted nor needed to expand their social circle at this stage in their relationship and so far as he was aware, none of their immortal friends were in town.

Methos was missing and he had no idea where to start looking.

**********

Two hours later, there had still been no word from Methos. Duncan had unpacked. Prepared a snack. Left it uneaten on the kitchen island. Put the lights on the Christmas tree. Made a mug of coffee. Left it to go cold on the desk. Tried the mobile number again. And again. He put a CD on. Changed it when he realised it was one of Methos’. 

He stared at the pile of exquisitely wrapped presents, lying forlornly on the coffee table. He examined each tag, carefully labelled in Methos’ distinctively strong handwriting. Gently he stroked his name on one large tag. He felt so helpless. He was used to being active, in charge, taking control of any situation but this one had him bemused. If he knew that Methos was in trouble, and where he was, he could go charging to the rescue. If he knew where Methos was, he could relax and wait patiently for his return.

Eventually he curled up on the leather couch, hugging a sweater he’d found tucked under a cushion, which smelt of Methos, and prayed that wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he was safe and well and heading home.

**********

The buzz hit him first, sending shivers of recognition racing to his extremities. He was on his feet, facing the door, when it swung open and there was Methos. He was alive. The relief flooded through him, leaving him weak as he staggered off the couch and over to the door.

Methos looked terrible. His hair was plastered to his head. His eyes were shadowed, sunken. He’d lost or left his overcoat somewhere. There was a large bullethole in the middle of his sweatshirt, the edges charred and bloody. There was mud and ice on his boots and over most of his jeans. He was also soaking wet. He shivered.

As Duncan reached the door, he gently drew Methos into the Loft. Methos didn’t seem to know where he was. It was as if he had expended all his physical and mental energy getting to the door. Duncan led him to the couch and sat him down, pulling the wool throw off the back and wrapping it around him. Duncan crouched. The familiar hazel eyes stared back at him, more pupil than iris. Gently Duncan cupped Methos’ cheeks; his sword callused palms scraping the fine stubble.

“You took a Quickening.” More a statement than a question.

Methos finally seemed to focus on Duncan. A small smirk appeared.

“I’ve had a really, really bad day.”

Almost imperceptibly, they drew closer, their lips met, a soft affirmation of understanding, support and love.

Duncan stroked his hands across Methos’ shoulders and squeezed.

“Stay here and try to keep warm. I’ll be back.”

He hurried into the bathroom. More evidence that Methos had been planning a romantic reunion. There were fresh, fluffy towels warming on the radiator. Candles had been placed around the bath. Oil and salts sat by the taps. Quickly changing his mind about a warm shower, he turned on the bath taps, fitted the plug and added a generous portion of scented salts. As the water started to foam, he found the matches and lit the candles, turning the main light off. The room rapidly filled with warm scented steam. As the bath water reached the right level, he gave it a quick swirl with one hand to check the temperature. Satisfied, he returned to guide Methos to the bathroom.

**********

As Methos started to pull off his sweatshirt, Duncan stopped him; “Let me,” and he eased the garment up Methos’ torso, along his arms and over his head. He flung it to one side, stole a quick kiss and started to unbutton the shirt. This too was removed with great care, Duncan’s fingers caressing as he unfastened each button. Next came the T-shirt, also ruined by the bullet-hole, also discarded. Duncan swallowed hard as the muscular torso was revealed. He wanted to touch, taste, feel his way but knew that Methos needed more from him at the moment than rampant sex. He settled for stroking down to the belt buckle, trying to convey his caring through the physical gesture.

The buckle snagged as he pulled it through the belt loops. Methos leaned into Duncan almost as though he couldn’t stand by himself. Instinctively, Duncan caught him.

“Not long now, love. Just let me get the rest of these clothes off, then you can relax.”

The jeans slid down the long legs and Duncan helped Methos to step out of them. The boxers quickly followed, revealing one of the side effects of a powerful Quickening. The erection jutted out, throbbing with need, liquid starting to drip from the tip. Methos tried to take himself in his hand but Duncan gently moved his hand away, “I’ll take care of this for you,” and he knelt on the tiled floor. 

Duncan ran his hands across the smooth skin of his lover’s stomach, feeling the muscles contract and ripple. One finger ran from the base of the arousal to the tip and Methos groaned …. “Please ….” Gripping the base of the erection firmly but lovingly, Duncan kissed the tip, tasting his lover for the first time in what seemed like forever. He parted his lips and sucked. Methos quivered and gripped Duncan’s shoulders, his fingers bruising in his need. Duncan swallowed, and in one movement, took the whole of the penis into his mouth. He sucked, creating vacuum, which increased the pressure and then released, creating waves of sensation, which seemed to shudder through to Methos’ very soul. Methos was already too close to the edge for too much finesse, so Duncan released the base of the cock and increased the suction.

As the climax exploded from him, Methos felt his knees give out but Duncan held him firmly as he rode out the orgasm. Swallowing all there was of Methos; Duncan finally lifted his head and let Methos collapse into his arms. Knee to knee, they knelt on the tiled floor and as Methos slumped even more, their foreheads touched in benediction.

**********

Several minutes later, Duncan realised that his partner was still shivering. He helped Methos to his feet, checked that the bath water was still warm and guided his lover into the scented depths. As Methos lay his head back onto the bath rim, he signed and shut his eyes in bliss. Duncan smiled at the sight, then remembered something else.

“Just relax here for a few minutes, I’ll be back.”

Methos acknowledged the comment with a lax wave of his hand.

Re-entering the main part of the Loft, Duncan moved gracefully to the door, which was still ajar. Glancing outside he found the remains of Methos’ overcoat. Picking it up, the medieval broadsword dropped to the floor with a solid clang. The blade was marred with the dull black stains that denoted dried blood. Putting it to one side to be dealt with later, Duncan picked up the coat. It was a write off. Apart from a bullethole in the front, the sleeves were shredded.

“I guess you won’t be needing this anymore,” and he bundled it into the trash bin in the hallway.

**********

Returning to the bathroom, it looked as though Methos had fallen asleep. He was breathing deeply, evenly, his chest rising and falling. His long dark lashes fluttered as he sensed Duncan’s presence, but he didn’t awaken. Much though Methos obviously needed the sleep, Duncan knew that he would chill again if he stayed in the bath and he would be more comfortable in bed.

Gently, he shook Methos awake. Gold green eyes met his and smiled.

“Let’s get you clean and into bed.”

“Why, MacLeod, I do believe you have nefarious designs on my body,” Methos stretched languidly, never breaking eye contact.

“Whether I have designs, nefarious or otherwise, you won’t thank me if you wake up in a cold bath. And I like being thanked by you.” Duncan picked up the large natural sponge from the edge of the bath and poured a generous amount of the bath soap onto it. He ran the sponge down the smooth, almost hairless chest, eliciting a murmur of appreciation, and back up again, ensuring that all traces of blood disappeared. He lifted Methos’ left arm; easing the sponge from shoulder to hand, leaving a trail of sweet smelling foam. He repeated the action with the other arm. Methos’ head dropped back to the rim, as he writhed sensuously with the sensations Duncan was creating with the simple act of bathing.

“Lean forward for me, love.”

The sponge moved deliciously along prominent collarbones, and down the leanly muscled back. The smooth white skin quivered as the sponge moved over shoulder blades and back up to collarbones and neck.

Methos cricked his neck and moaned softly as the caresses eased their way to sore and abused muscles. Despite the miracle of immortal healing, he still ached from the trials of the day,

Duncan followed the path of the sponge with soft kisses along the ridge of Methos’ shoulders. As the sponge moved over onto his lover’s chest, the kisses trailed up the long elegant neck and lingered around an earlobe. Methos groaned again.

“Highlander. Much more of that and you’ll be in here with me.” He stopped the descent of the sponge just above his groin. Duncan grinned as he realised that Methos’ erection was peeking through the bubbles.

“Come on, love, let’s get you out of there. I can think of somewhere we can continue this in much more comfort.” He pulled the bathplug out, grabbed one of the large, fluffy bathsheets that had been warming for just this moment, and pulled Methos to his feet, wrapping him in the towel and his arms. For a heartbeat, Methos rested in the safest haven he knew.

**********

The Loft gleamed in the glow from the Christmas tree lights as they left the bathroom. Duncan pulled off the heavy throw and pillows, revealing crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets. Turning to Methos, he pulled him into an embrace and then, almost reverentially, pushed him down onto the king size bed.

After pulling off his own clothes, he followed Methos down and covered him completely with his own body. He nipped at his lover’s lips as he settled between the long, athletically muscled legs, which had opened to welcome him. He could feel the heat rising from every inch of skin he touched with lips and fingers, caressing with murmurs and endearments as he coaxed an increasingly passionate response. The green gold eyes glittered in the dim light, picking up the lights from the tree. Pupils dilated. Breath hitched. Hands grasped golden flesh, kneading, moulding.

Knowing that the Quickening was still coursing through Methos, Duncan reached for the lube, conveniently placed on the bedside table, and coated the beautiful, long, thick cock, continuing to lick and bite at erect nipples.

Holding Methos’ gaze, Duncan also prepared himself, smoothing the lube into his passage, and then pushing upwards on powerful thighs, he positioned himself. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself, sheathing Methos inside himself.

Methos moaned as the tight, hot channel gripped him. He wanted to pound into the flesh encasing him; he wanted to hear Duncan scream his name as he came, but he couldn’t move with the 6foot Highlander pinning him firmly to the bed. “Please,” the plea was strained as Methos tried to verbalise what he needed, but Duncan knew what to do.

As he pulled upwards, he clenched his intestinal muscles. 

“Oh, God, Duncan …….” Methos grabbed Duncan’s hips and tried to push down, to get the rhythm he so desperately needed. But Duncan refused to be rushed.

“Easy, love, I’m going to give you what you need. Stay with me.”

Gradually, slowly, Duncan used his body to worship Methos. The lubrication eased movement, up and down, squeezing, clenching. Methos’ hands moved to the sheets, clutching, as his head tossed from side to side. He was so close. He could feel the pressure building; tiny tremors from the tips of his toes to the sweat drenched spikes of hair.

Duncan knew that Methos couldn’t last much longer. The Quickening he had taken earlier wouldn’t allow for a long slow loving but Duncan wanted to make it was good as possible for his quicksilver lover.

He leaned forward and snatched a kiss as with one final lunge up and down, he took Methos deep within him. Methos’ climax shuddered through him as he threw his head back and cried, “Duncan!!”

Duncan’s own orgasm followed seconds later.

**********

In the cosy aftermath of mutual pleasure, they cuddled close and dozed.

The antique mantle clock struck the hour. It’s silver chimes echoed through the Loft; ten …. eleven …… twelve. Somewhere in the post-coital miasma, Methos registered the time and jerked awake.

“Mac! Duncan! Wake up!,” he wriggled out of the bear hug in which he was wrapped and bounced on the edge of the bed.

“Mac!”

“What?” the sleep fuddled voice responded.

“Where’s my overcoat?”

“What?”

“My overcoat. Where is it?”

“Methos ….. it’s the middle of the night. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, you benighted Scots fool. It’s Christmas Day and I need my overcoat now.”

Duncan opened his eyes and stared at the vision sitting on the edge of the bed. Methos glowed. His eyes were alight with some emotion Duncan couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Come on, Mac. Where is it?”

Duncan shook his head as his brain finally caught up, “I put it in the trash. It was ruined …..”

Before he could finish, Methos had leapt off the bed, heading for the door.

Duncan sat up and watched his lover disappear into the hall. Seconds later, Methos was back, grinning widely, carrying the disreputable remains of his black overcoat.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Patience, patience, Mac.” Methos was searching through the coat’s many pockets, both those intended by the manufacturer and his own later additions. Various bits of his armoury were scattered across the Loft as he made his way back to the bed. Eventually he let out a whoop as his hand closed round the object of his search.

Dropping the overcoat, he leapt over the intervening floorspace and landed on his knees next to an increasingly bemused Duncan. Bestowing a quick kiss on Duncan’s open mouth, he sat back, crossing his legs, his face suddenly serious.

“I know you’ve been worried about my commitment to this relationship …. No, don’t interrupt. Let me say this,” he paused, licking suddenly dry lips. “And I know I haven’t exactly given you cause not to worry but I wanted to be here when you returned home;” he indicated the Loft, “I wanted everything to be perfect for our first Christmas together. I haven’t always been here for you but I want you to know how much you mean to me. This,” he patted a small box nestled in one hand, “is a token from me to you. I hope you like it” and he passed the exquisite velvet covered box across.

Duncan stared at it.

“It won’t bite.” Methos was smiling at Duncan’s expression, which was a cross between utter delight at the declaration and doubt as to what his lover could possibly be giving him. Methos’ smile faltered slightly as he waited.

Then, taking a deep breath, Duncan opened the box and gasped. Nestled in the blue satin lining was the present Methos had chosen for him. Carefully, as if afraid it would disappear, he lifted it out and turned it this way and that, watching the way the Christmas tree lights reflected off the smooth, perfect surface.

“Well, say something. If you don’t like it …..” He was cut off as Duncan leaned forward and pressed warm, smooth lips to his, a quick tongue flicking a caress.

“I love it, Methos, and I love you. It’s absolutely perfect. Will you……?” He offered the gift to Methos, who nodded, a sudden lump in his throat preventing him from saying anything.

Methos took the band and put it around Duncan’s left bicep, securing the safety chain. A warrior’s band. A lover’s token. The plain platinum band gleamed with its promise of eternity.

“You know, Methos, you really are an old fraud.”

“Whatever do you mean, MacLeod?”

“All this Bah Humbug about the season and you come up with probably the most perfect gift I have ever been given.”

“It’s just a bangle, Mac.”

“Not the bracelet. You.”

“Oh.”

“Merry Christmas, Methos.”

“Merry Christmas, Duncan.”

 

 

Finis


End file.
